


he smells of washing detergent.

by beckhams



Series: football. — ideas. [11]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Domestic, Friendship/Love, M/M, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:09:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27647986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beckhams/pseuds/beckhams
Summary: he smells of washing detergent. his hair is a bleached blonde, the smell of bleach still in his bathroom. and you sit cross legged on the bed, watching his hands fold laundry.
Relationships: David Beckham/Gary Neville
Series: football. — ideas. [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1733986
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	he smells of washing detergent.

**Author's Note:**

> short drabble I never finished but liked enough to publish :)

he smells of washing detergent. his hair is a bleached blonde, the smell of bleach still in his bathroom. and you sit cross legged on the bed, watching his hands fold laundry.

the buzz in the air normally annoys you, but for once, it's calming. and his hands are pale, soft, with bruises at the knuckles a soft purple, healing bruises. his wrist on the left has dark purple, almost black, bruise forming and he pays no attention to it. 

he had fallen on his wrist in training, and the nurses weren't very kind with him when he asked for them to check it. tight bandages and not strong enough painkillers. but he's grown used to it, the dull pain that forms in his hand.

and you ache. in ways you have never felt before. in ways you are too scared to explain.

you have a football in the corner, tossed there after a game outside and you had rushed in, tired and wanting rest. it was tossed.

his earrings catch the light from the sunbeams and his earring is dangling, shorter than the ones he usually wears, but still dangling none the less. it hangs a cross on it, matching the necklace he's worn since he was young.

there's a song he's humming under his breath and you can just make out the chorus, kate bush. he's always been fond of her, in a way that he never says but you can tell by the fact that when she comes on the radio he never turns her off.

he's wearing shorts. and his knees are bruised. 

almost all of him is bruised, you muse to yourself.

he's fragile. soft skin and pearly white smiles, pale skin and blonde hair, tattoos and piecings, leather and fishnets. and he's standing in your bedroom, folding laundry like he's not stepped foot on a football pitch.

you can almost see him on the pitch again, football at his feet, eyebrows knotted, hands bunched. and it doesn't seem like the man in front of you, but maybe it's the other side of the coin. and you want to reach out and touch him, taste him, to see if he's real. 

you've never been one to be star struck, you've met plenty of people and plenty of people have met you, and yet whenever you look over at him, you sometimes look past him as your best friend and instead you can see him as how everyone else does. 

david beckham. one of the best. red through and through. 

his jersey is tossed over a chair in the middle of the room, 'the clothes chair' as you've dubbed it. the seven beams at you, almost daring you to pick it up. and your fingers tremble. 

"want to go get food?" he asks, his voice light. he's always had a high voice, something that gets him teased mercilessly, but you like it. it's not harsh or demanding like everyone else's. it's _nice_. 

and maybe it's because it reminds you of a girl, because that's all you know. your a teenager and girls are supposed to be 'it' for you. and maybe it's because he's pretty, in all the ways a girl is, but he's solid were girls are soft, and he's lean were girls are curvy. so maybe it's not to do with that. maybe you just like him. 

your tongue feels dry. "sure. where?" 

he finishes folding the last shirt. 

"wherever you want." 

you nod. 

**☆**

the room is freezing and the television static is louder than it was in any other hotel room, and the water is so overpriced that if you even looked at it, fergie would be barging into the room saying you've got to pay for everything yourself. 

he's seated next to you, talking with giggs, smile on his face, and he's fixing his earring even though there's nothing wrong with it. 

the television has some random match on it, something from a previous world cup if its got anything to do with the french flags and cursing. 

when everyone leaves, he clears his throat and then starts picking up rubbish and putting it away. 

"you think you'll start tomorrow?" 

"no."

"why?"

"fergie's been on my case about my wrist. says he wants me to get fully recovered before I'm back. don't know if he'll play me or just keep me on the bench." he answers with a shrug. 

"wouldn't be bad to look over and see you cheering us on." 

"what's that supposed to mean?" 

"means that you look like a cheerleader." 

he shakes his hands at you like he's holding pom poms and you let out a cackle at it, hoping you aren't annoying the people next to you by being too loud. 

the room is dark, and your hands are cold. 

he let's out a hum before leaning against the wall, his shirt pulled tight over his chest. you can just about make out the arch in his eyebrow. 

**☆**

his mouth is sticky. chewing gum and cough drops and cheap sweets from a corner shop that you really shouldn't be going into because your on a diet. and his mouth is sticky. 

his tongue is dyed blue from his slushy and even fergie doesn't say anything when he comes into the dorm kitchen, hands fisted in his coat pockets. he looks up at him and nods, and becks nods back, mouth wrapped around a plastic straw. 

becks kicks his legs up to be on the table and fergie still doesn't say anything. becks raises an eyebrow at you before sticking his blue tongue out and you let out a giggle. he smiles into his sleeve. 

fergie pats becks on the head when he leaves, not a single word about the half finished homework or the slushie or the blue tongue or the legs on the table. not a single word. 

' _favouritism_.' you mouth at him, and he winks over at you. 

his mouth is sticky. and his tongue is cold against yours, his mouth is blue, and your hands shake when they rest on his hips, tugging him on top and his weight is comfortable, grounding you when you feel like floating away. 


End file.
